


Spending Christmas With You

by lady__sansa_stark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Bit of fluff and smut and tension, Christmas fic, F/M, I've upped this from T to M just cause on second-thought it's more mild M than anything lmao, Y'know all the good stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 07:16:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8965591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady__sansa_stark/pseuds/lady__sansa_stark
Summary: "The fireplace is burningAnd your hands feel so warmThe presents are under our treeAnd I take you in my armsAnd your lips are touching mineAnd it feels like our first Christmas"





	

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted via tumblr: How about an AU Xmas fic, where Petyr and Sansa are secretly seeing each [other], and he stays with the Starks for Xmas, for whatever reason and they're trying to sneak around and not get caught...
> 
> [This is my birthday present to you guys. It's also me attempting a short, not-too-much-backstory sort of fic (and sort of failing at it because I have a problem with writing hecka long fics lol). I hope you like it!! :D]

 

\- **_The fireplace is burning_**  
**_And your hands feel so warm_**  
**_The presents are under our tree_**  
**_And I take you in my arms_**  
**_And your lips are touching mine_**  
**_And it feels like our first Christmas Eve_** –

‘I’m Spending Christmas With You’ - Tom Occhipinti ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-fhl3_zvcCM)) _  
_

* * *

            Sansa watched Arya and Bran and Rickon traipse through the freshly-fallen snow – throwing wet snowballs, carving cavernous labyrinths, stomping down into the endless fields of white. It had been a late frost this year, the snow from today one of the firsts. Arya was chasing her brothers now, arms full of packed snow, lips yelling out, her fingers itching to dump the snow down jackets. Bran clambered up a tree, leaving Rickon to the mercy of his sister. He tried to run, and it was a truly valiant effort. But his smaller legs were no match to the determined stride of Arya. His scream as snow fell down his collar and froze his back was only a breath louder than the merciless laughter of his siblings.

            Sansa couldn’t help but laugh, too.

            The evening sun was beginning to kiss the mountains and forests to the west. The sky was streaked in bright oranges and yellows and pinks. It filtered through the clouds, too, and finally fell onto the snow, setting the entire landscape awash in a painter’s palette. Sansa had almost forgotten how beautiful the North was, especially in winter. Even with the snow covering all, and the animals keeping warm in bushes and caves – even when winter was for _dying_ , it was also for rebirth. For the start of something new.

            A cold wind blew across the field and up the stone walls of Winterfell, creeping up and up until finally stalking through the window of her room. Sansa shivered, and had to wonder how terribly cold Rickon was with all that snow melting under his jacket.

            And there – a speck on the Kingsroad, travelling faster and growing growing growing until Sansa could make out the car, its top covered in snow.

            She had been waiting all day, staring out into the expanse of the North not only because of how beautiful fresh-snow was in the dawn or noon or evening light. Staring not only because she had nothing else to do (she should have helped more with the dinner preparations, to be honest. Or cleaned the house, as her mother was keen on having a spotless house, especially when guests were over).

            She also definitely had not been waiting all week for their reply. To spending Christmas in the North – much more festive with snow, but far more colder than they were used to. She and the rest of their family had bets on whether they would come at all because of their proclivity to avoiding anything unpleasant (the cold being one of few).

            Only Sansa and her father had betted on them showing. Her father, because he was honorable and would have projected his loyalty onto anyone, especially for a polite Christmas dinner. And Sansa had bet on them because, well…

            She watched the car approach Winterfell, a multicolored speck in the evening sun. As it pulled through the courtyard, two dark lines following behind darkening the virgin snow, avoiding her siblings that were rushing back inside, it rumbled to a stop.

            Sansa herself was not particularly keen on one of the three passengers of that car. The second one she had no qualms for or against, though she had to admit there was disappointment in her when the small figure stepped out onto the snow.

            No, Sansa couldn’t care either way what happened to her aunt and cousin. If she were being honest with herself, she would have wished them away, far away – anywhere but here, where they would certainly whine and complain and overextend their welcome.

            But the third figure stepped out of the car at last, and Sansa forgot all of her previous worries.

            He was just as handsome as she last saw him, even from this distance. And he was just as bundled as the others, nearly every inch covered in jackets and gloves and hats and scarves and the like. So unused to the snow and the biting air, down in the middle of the country.

            They made their way to the front door, shuffling through the snow and likely cursing at the cold.

            But for a heartbeat, Sansa thought the man paused behind his wife and stepson, stopped at the edge as the shadow of Winterfell fell just out of his reach. And he looked up at Sansa’s rooms – directly at her, she thought. As if _knowing_ by some invisible pull just where she would be. And knowing that she was staring down at him, too.

            Sansa smiled as he passed through the shadow into the house.

* * *

            Catelyn had muttered how _convenient_ it was that her sister had arrived after Christmas Eve mass, and long after all the preparations were needed to be done for dinner. And worse than all that – that Lysa hadn’t bothered to bring anything except herself, her son, and her new husband.

            The rest of the Starks were in silent agreement with Catelyn, too. None of them were particularly fond of this branch of their family. Eddard’s side had their own issues, to be sure. But they either had the decency to not show up at all, or to bother to bring drinks or food or more drinks. A fair amount of them showed for the dinner, and would be gone come Christmas morning.

            Sansa was thankful that her mother had conveniently forgotten _why_ Aunt Lysa and company were here. Had conveniently forgotten _who_ had convinced Catelyn to send the invitation in the idea of ‘spreading cheer and good will,’ despite heavy protests.

            At least, Sansa hoped Catelyn had forgotten in the midst of preparing for the holidays.

            They were all seated in the large dining room (there was a smaller one, where the Starks would typically dine that had a table just big enough for them). About thirty people accepted the invitation, and the room was lively. Full of silverware clanking on dishes; on adults conversing the gossip of families and friends from the past year; on the children covertly throwing food at one another. Arya had successfully constructed a trebuchet and was trying to shoot bits of ham into water glasses. More often than not, ham and mashed potatoes missed their mark.

            Although Sansa did not do much in ways of cleaning or preparation, she did see to it that she was in charge of setting the place cards. Adults on one end, children on the other.

            So what if Sansa sat herself on the boundary line between the two groups?

            So what if Sansa – totally randomly, and without realizing it, of course – had sat her uncle on the other side of that boundary?

            She also made sure to place her dear Aunt Lysa in between some of the distant Stark relatives halfway down the table. Sansa wasn’t sure who was at a worse position – her aunt, for being between the somber adults and not the center of attention, or the quiet Mormonts and Umbers that had to deal with her?

            Either way didn’t matter. What _did_ matter was the endless inches that spanned between Sansa and her uncle.

            But something _did_ matter. More than the conversations; more than the placement of who sat beside whom; more than the food trebuchet that was now being experimented to throw food into mouths instead of cups. What should have mattered infinitely more was sometimes how many inches there _weren’t_ between Sansa and her uncle. And worse – how _often_ that crossing of boundaries had happened.

            None of them knew. Not her parents or siblings or distant cousins or even her _dear_ Aunt Lysa.

            Sansa could only imagine the chaos that would ensue had they the inkling of doubt that the relationship between uncle and niece treaded more often than not away from propriety.

            Oh, but that’s what made it so wonderfully wicked. So wonderfully _wrong_.

            Sansa made polite conversation with the cousins surrounding her, asking about school and what they planned on majoring in when they got into college and if they had any other plans for winter break. The rote conversation of always. And an aunt on her father’s side sat across the table from her asked about her studies, too, to which Sansa dutifully responded with politeness and smiles.

            Through it all, she thought she responded rather normally. Maintained her sense of ‘everything is okay.’

            But as the dinner continued to draw on and the conversations fell into repetition – oh, sorry, I forgot I asked you that already! – that constant _press_ against her leg was becoming harder to ignore.

            Sansa couldn’t help but smile as his fingers dug into her thigh, harder.

            Despite all her practiced politeness, there was a certain individual that Sansa had yet to engage in conversation with. And wasn’t that the plan? To conveniently ignore the uncle beside her? To act as though they were mere strangers, acquaintance only because of the blood that flowed not in him, but in his wife.

            He was doing his part just as spectacularly – talking and listening to the adults beside him, accepting the well-wishes of the new marriage.

            None of them knew what he was doing beneath the table. To his _niece_.

            His fingers had found her leg not long after grace was broken and conversation began to fill the room. A simple hold upon her skin, thumb drawing lazy circles into the fabric of her dress. Sansa welcomed it, him, and the slow burning ache that his ministrations were stoking within her.

            Sansa ignored him and his press. He knew she was ignoring him, and she knew he knew.

            While she spoke to her cousins, his fingers had traced a line down the seam at her thigh. They pulled the long flow of fabric in a slow drag, cold air kissing her legs inch by inch until the skirt was bunched above her knee. His hand remained atop the dress, stroking from side to side. Waiting.

            It wasn’t until Sansa had been in the middle of discussing her college choices with the aunt across the table that her uncle decided to cross, finally, that blurred line between them.

            Her breath hitched – and Sansa could _see_ the smirk on her uncle’s lips without ever breaking her attention from her aunt. His fingers slid beneath the fabric to press and play upon her bare skin. Further up they trailed, bringing her skirts with them. He stopped where the tablecloth fell, still stroking. They were both well aware of the inches that remained between his fingers and her core. Between where he was, and where she wanted him.

            When she finished the conversation with her aunt, Sansa finally gave her uncle the attention he was so _desperately_ urging from her.

            She had to hide the smile that was threatening to play on her lips. Had to hide the heaviness of desire from her voice. “I’m sorry, Uncle Petyr, did you want something?”

            He took his time: reaching for the glass of wine, sipping it, twirling it in his stem. As though what was in _that_ hand was infinitely more interesting that what lay beneath his other.

            Finally, with the slightest turn at one corner of his lips, her dear Uncle Petyr turned to her. The fingers on Sansa’s thigh had let up their relentless call for attention, resuming languid strokes across her warm skin. “Not right now, sweetling.”

            Petyr turned away from her then, hand still fingering the stem of his glass. But Sansa did not fail to hear the underlying meaning in his few words.

            Of course he wouldn’t want something _now_. Although, Sansa couldn’t help imagining what her unsuspecting relatives and siblings and parents would think, should her own uncle want something _now_. Should he lift Sansa up, set her upon the heavy wooden table, push her skirts even higher until everything was revealed. And take her, then and there.

            And when Sansa would dig her hands into his back; and when Sansa would whimper and beg for more, oh gods, harder; and when Sansa would cry out _Petyr_ for the entire North to hear – what would they think of them then? Of her?

            It took all of Sansa’s focus to pay attention to the conversations and not the pretty pictures in her head.

            Later, she thought.

 _Tonight_.

* * *

            Everyone was tired from the massive servings of dinner and second servings and dessert.

            The children bounded around the Christmas tree in the Great Hall, frantically searching for presents with their names on it. They sorted them by name, marveling at whoever had more presents than someone else. Some ornaments fell, but the Starks learned long ago to never use glass ornaments whenever the children were around.

            Children received toys; adults received clothes and alcohol. The minute every present was unwrapped, parents ushered their children towards their rooms in preparation for the cold trek back home in the morning.

            Once, years ago before the wipe out of pagan traditions, the turn of the seasons meant spending weeks in Winterfell, with all of the North invited to celebrate in the good cheer. It meant something else – not Christmas, but festivities to ask the gods for a new year, with just as much alcohol and food. Now, it was almost as good. But come dawn, the house would be dwindling into its comfortable silence between the Starks.

            And the guests from the Vale. Though only three of them, they decided (or rather, Lysa decided) not to waste the effort in traveling all the way North and back down for one evening. So Catelyn, to her chagrin, had to host her sister until after New Years’.

            Sansa, to her excitement, would not have to say goodbye to Petyr in the morning.

            Sansa, to her excitement, would not have to start enjoying the company of her uncle in the morning.

            It was well past midnight when she crept out of her room into a hall filled with gentle snoring seeping beneath doors. A wind was rattling against the stone walls, too, bringing a fresh flurry of Christmas snow.

            All of the noises masked the creaking floorboards as Sansa crept through the house.

            She couldn’t know if it would work, given how _clingy_ her aunt was to things she claimed for her own. Still, Sansa crept down the stairs into the Great Hall, carefully avoiding the ripped wrapping paper strewn like landmines across the carpet. She marveled at the tree in the darkness. Moonlight filtering in through floor-to-wall windows set the ornaments to life – a sparkling array of light dancing between its branches. Sansa bent to pick up a wayward ribbon before she heard the telltale creak of the stairs.

            She hid behind the tree.

            Slowly the footsteps approached, just as careful as she had been on her way through. And then–

            “Sansa?”

            She smiled. Walking from the shadows of the branches, Sansa crept behind the figure on tiptoes. Her fingers wrapped around his torso just as he turned.

            “Merry Christmas, Petyr.”

            Arms wrapped around her, enveloping her in warmth inside and out. Sansa couldn’t help but wriggle her nose between the furs Petyr wore, searching for a part in the coat. She found it, and snuggled her head against him, just beneath his chin. There was something calming, something wholly familiar about his scent and the feeling of his skin on her.

            A hand moved to run through her hair, like he always did, unable to keep fingers away from the cascades of red, and–

            _Crinkle_.

            She could feel the momentary confusion tensing through Petyr, as his hand moved to investigate at the mysterious source of noise.

            Against his skin, Sansa laughed. She pulled back, hands still wrapped in his furs, and gazed into his face. Sansa could see the smile tugging on his lips, even in the dark. “I thought I could be your present this year, Petyr.”

            Petyr’s grin grew wider, and he pulled Sansa in until their lips met. Tentative at first, as though searching for each other in the dark. And then again, more insistent, more pressing and aching, desire mixing between them. Sansa could taste the mint of his breath. Petyr bit at her bottom lip, dragging his teeth over it. Her hands clung onto him, pulled their bodies flush. She wanted to envelop herself in him entirely. To give herself – her everything – to him.

            With considerable effort, they pulled away. Petyr stroked the ribbon tangled within her hair. The smile remained, and Sansa could feel it spreading throughout his entire self. “If dealing with Lysa and her son and this bloody winter rewarded me with a present as beautiful as you, sweetling, I would have done it sooner.” Another kiss, a gentle peck. Petyr trailed his hands down Sansa’s sides, causing her entire body to ache and follow wherever his touch went. Begging for more more _more_.

            “Now,” he continued, his voice barely a whisper. Another peck, at the corner of her lips. “If you’re my present–” Petyr’s mouth moved down her jaw, biting at the skin just beneath her ear. “And since it _is_ Christmas day–” His fingers roamed up and down her sides, so painfully slowly. “Do I have to wait until morning, or am I allowed to unwrap my present now?”

            Sansa felt a thrill of desire run through her. The pretty images from dinner were flitting through her mind again.

            “That depends,” she said, trailing her own fingers beneath the thick fur, finding the edge of his nightshirt and creeping beneath. Petyr’s skin was warm, smooth – and currently unmarred. She would need to fix that. “If you get to unwrap me, can I do the same for you?”

            She felt his chuckle reverberate into her neck. Petyr moved back to her lips, his beard leaving faint prickles against her skin.

            Half of her thought Petyr might take her here, in the Great Hall, for all the house to hear. She wondered if he thought it, too. And then she _knew_ he thought of it when he finally broke apart, seconds later, to ask, “Where can we go where no matter how loud you scream no one will hear?”

            Sansa smiled into his lips. “I know a place, but…” she trailed off.

            Petyr’s hands stopped their trailing. “But…?”

            Her own hands hadn’t. “But, it’s rather cold. And I know how fragile you Southroners are to the slightest breeze.”

            Petyr pinched at her sides, capturing her surprised squeal in his mouth as he kissed her. “With you keeping me warm throughout the night, sweetling, I don’t think I’ll mind the cold.”

            Despite her baser instincts of not wanting to let go – of physically painting that picture, letting Petyr take her among the wrapping paper – Sansa let her mouth drop from him. Her hands slipped away from his back, if only for now. She grabbed his hand, and they maneuvered through the battlefield of unwrapped presents, through the dining room, and further, down darkened halls lit only by moonlight.

            The door to the broken tower hadn’t squeaked, thank the gods. Sansa had barely closed it before Petyr pressed himself against her. His hands and mouth and body were the only things she could think about, even as snow stopped falling and the sky began to grow pink.

            And she was right. They were so warm – tangled up within each other, above and below and in every position in between – that Sansa hadn’t noticed how cold it really was.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [Happy holidays and a wonderful new year! :) ]


End file.
